Dial H for Hitchcock (11 page)

I
pulled away from the curb like a bat out of hell, which turns out to be a bad idea in heavy traffic.

The accident sounded a lot worse than it looked. Despite partially caving in, my driver’s side door still opened and closed. As for the other guy, his Chevy Nova suffered only a little chipped paint.

The bad news was he wanted to file a police report.

The good news was neither of us had a cell phone.

The bad news was I could see a pay phone at the end of the block.

The good news was he hadn’t seen it yet.

I had to think fast.

The other guy’s name was Lewis. Lewis took pride in fulfilling his civic duty. He’d voted in every presidential election since 1956. Plus, he’d just changed insurance companies and was eager to find out about his new coverage. I debated telling
Lewis that I was a suspect in a murder case in the process of fleeing the jurisdiction and therefore not exactly eager to alert the authorities, but I decided to skip the formalities and get right to the point.

I pulled four hundred bucks out of my purse.

When they say money talks, they’re not lying.

After wishing Lewis a good day, I hopped back into my crippled Camry and headed west on Sunset, making four lights in a row.

It was half past noon now. I’d be fine assuming there were no more accidents.

I took it down to fifty-five, following Coldwater over the hill. After ten minutes or so, I started feeling nauseous. Maybe I needed food. I found the candy bar Bridget gave me and downed it in three bites. It had almonds, which made it lunch.

I felt better after that, and put on the radio. The relationship doctor was talking about people who couldn’t commit, which made me feel nauseous again, so I switched to classic rock. Unfortunately, Bruce Springsteen was singing “Born to Run.”

It seemed like a good idea to turn off the radio.

So this was life on the lam.

I tried to picture myself greeting each day peering through the slats of the blinds in miscellaneous anonymous motels. Eating at greasy spoons, where they always forgot to put the salad dressing on the side. Spending lonely nights at local dives shooting pool with petty criminals. What happened if I ran out of money before I got myself out of this mess? More to the point, would Coldwater ever end? Where the hell was I?

Uncharted territory, it would appear.

The San Fernando Valley, home to the multibillion-dollar porn industry and epicenter for much of ethnic Southern California. Not that you could tell. All I could see for miles in either direction were tract homes draped with last year’s Christmas decorations.

I kept driving.

Thirty minutes of citrus trees.

Ten minutes of auto-parts shops.

Finally, I found it, a sun-baked storefront with peeling floral decals in the window and a faded sign reading ORCHID THAI MASSAGE.

As I pulled open the door, the sound of gong chimes filled the air. The waiting room was empty, except for a small dog in a rattan basket.

“Can I help you, Miss?” The man behind the desk stood up. He was huge, at least six foot four, and garbed in a flowing white suit.

I told him I was waiting for a friend who had an appointment at two o’clock.

He checked his book. “Ah. Cece Caruso.”

“Yes. Lovely woman, isn’t she?”

“I haven’t met Miss Caruso yet,” he said, opening and closing his fingers like a flytrap. “So I have no idea. But she’s been coming regularly these past few weeks, so I’m certain she’s starting to glow from within. Thai massage not only addresses soft-tissue disorders, chronic back pain, joint pain, and migraines, it also firms and tightens the skin.” He peered at me. “You can forget about getting Botox after we’re done with you.”

“Cece looks fabulous for her age,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sure she does,” he said. “Have a seat. It’s almost two.”

Whatever.

I went over to pet the dog, then sat down, wondering if I’d recognize Chantal in her Cece disguise. The way I remembered her, she looked nothing like me. But maybe I was flattering myself. Maybe I looked pretty good to myself, and beige, mousy, and in need of Botox to the rest of the world. It was kind of depressing.

Anyway, I didn’t want to get too hung up on Chantal. That would be a mistake. Because it was quite possible she was innocent in all this and somebody else entirely was going to walk through that door, somebody I’d never laid eyes on before. Either way, I sat on the edge of my seat, ready to strike.

The minutes ticked by.

2:07.

I leaned back a little. Maybe she wasn’t going to show.

I thumbed through a couple of magazines. The dog was snoring now.

I stared into space. She wasn’t coming. But I wasn’t beaten yet.

“Excuse me, is that a surveillance camera?” I pointed to a black object with a lens affixed to the molding over the door.

The man in the flowing white suit looked up. “A surveillance camera? Where?”

“Over there.”

“Over where?”

I pointed again. “On the molding. Over the door.”

“Oh, over there.” He looked at it quizzically. “Yes, that’s a
surveillance camera. We get some unwanted traffic from time to time. You know, people looking for a massage parlor.”

Cece had been coming here regularly.

There had to be footage of her in there.

How hard could it be to get my hands on it?

“How do you like that model?” I asked innocently. “I’m comparing brands for my house. I’ve had a couple of break-ins lately.”

“I’m not sure,” he said, picking up the phone. “It just arrived yesterday. We haven’t even hooked it up yet.”

But the red light was blinking.

“I see,” the huge man said into the phone. “Consider it done. Good-bye.” After hanging up, he stood up so abruptly his chair fell over backward. He came out from behind the desk and loomed before me like a national monument. “That was Miss Caruso on the phone. She’s running late.” He took my elbow and lifted me to my feet. “Instead of sitting here waiting for her, I’m going to lead you back to Tony. He’s got twenty minutes to kill.”

Tony? Tony didn’t sound like a Thai name to me. And I didn’t like the sound of the word “kill.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But totally unnecessary.”

“I insist,” he said, pushing me through a curtain of multicolored beads. “Our business depends on word of mouth. You’d be helping us more than we’d be helping you. You like to help people, don’t you?”

“But—”

He led me into a small, dark room that smelled of incense, and blocked the exit with his hulking physique. “I’m going to
leave now. Tony will be in momentarily.” Then he closed the door behind him.

I waited until I heard him walk away, then made a beeline for the door, which was kind of pointless because anybody who goes to the movies could tell you that the door was going to be locked and I was going to be trapped in an incense-filled room in the San Fernando Valley for all of eternity, or at least as long as it took for the Stockholm syndrome to take effect, causing me to sympathize with my captors and not try to flee.

To my surprise, the knob turned easily.

Careful not to make any noise, I pushed it open and peered down the hall. I was expecting armed guards. Instead, I saw one small guy carrying a fresh white towel.

“Hi. I’m Tony.” He was wearing a white T-shirt and baggy brown pants. “You here for the complimentary minimassage?”

The man had glasses on, for God’s sake.

“Yes, that’s me.” I could really use a massage. And Freudian psychoanalysis. Combined with a drug regimen. It was official now.

Back in the room, Tony had me take off my coat and shoes and lie face down on a padded mat on the floor while he applied a hot, herbal compress to the back of my neck.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Mm. Wonderful.”

“Do you know anything about Thai massage?”

I shook my head.

“It was developed by Jivaka Kumar Bhaccha, physician to Buddha, more than twenty-five hundred years ago in India.”

If it was good enough for Buddha, it was good enough for me. I felt myself sinking deeper into the mat.

“From there, it made its way to Thailand, where the ayurvedic techniques and principles gradually became influenced by traditional Chinese medicine. For centuries, it was performed by monks as one component of Thai medicine. Did you notice the Wat Thai temple across the street? Cool roof, all fancy? I trained with the monks there after dropping out of med school. My mom was disappointed after all the money they’d put into my education, but my dad got it.”

“Too much information,” I mumbled.

“What?” Without waiting for an answer, Tony told me to flip over onto my back and sit up. I scooted forward on the mat so he could lie down behind me. He raised his knees, then balanced a pillow on top of them. When he was in position, he had me do a kind of backward swan dive so that the small of my back was supported by the pillow, my head was resting on his pelvis, and my arms extended backward, palms up, until they reached the tops of his shoulders.

With his warm, strong hands, Tony pulled my shoulders back, intensifying the stretch.

I have never felt such bliss.

“The Bridge Pose,” he said modestly. “Now for the Butterfly.”

I lay down on my back, arms against my sides, and raised my knees up until they were at my shoulders. Then, with a small push from Tony, I lifted my back off the ground and extended my calves straight out over my head, toes pointing down. Tony ran around behind me, tucking his feet under my shoulder blades and squatting down so that we were pressed
buttocks to buttocks. Then he grabbed the soles of my feet and tugged them gently toward the ground.

I couldn’t speak. I was soaring heavenward. All my cares had evaporated. There were angels singing.

No, those were gong chimes.

The front door had opened.

Cece was here.

Oh, my God.

I had to get up.

I couldn’t get up.

I was halfway into a somersault with Tony’s hands wrapped around my feet.

“Tony?” My voice was muffled by my thighs, which were hovering an inch above my face.

“Shh.” He pulled harder on my feet. “Give in to it.”

I had no choice.

“Fire!” I cried.

Tony let go instantly. “I don’t smell anything.”

I flipped my legs back down and scrambled to standing. Then I threw on my coat, grabbed my shoes and bag, and pulled open the door, which banged loudly against the wall, upsetting a pile of freshly stacked white towels.

“Where are you going?” Tony cried.

I ran down the hallway and into the waiting room, just in time to hear the gong chime as a tall, dark-haired woman fled Thai Orchid Massage.

“I told her you were here,” said the man in the flowing white suit. “And she just turned on her heel and left.”

“Cece’s full of surprises,” I said, taking off after her.

I
didn’t know a person could run that fast in spike heels.

She had on a great outfit, by the way: dark blue jeans tucked into high cognac suede boots, topped with a cropped, cream-colored jacket with three-quarter-length bell sleeves. And what looked like a real Chanel bag, the kind with the double gold-chain handles. At least my imposter recognized my superior taste in clothing.

“Stop!” I cried as she sprinted across the four lanes of Coldwater, dodging a big rig with aplomb. I was decidedly less graceful. I was also barefoot, and trying not to sever an artery on a piece of broken glass.

“Watch it!” The driver of the big rig leaned on his horn. “You crazy?”

It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t bother answering.

She was headed toward the rainbow-bright Wat Thai temple opposite, and I was stuck between lanes.

Car after car sped past me, the drivers screaming obscenities in myriad foreign tongues.

She was through the ironwork gates now.

She was getting away.

“Give me a break!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as I braved an oncoming Mercedes, hopped the curb, and bolted down the sidewalk, racing past a long row of cypress trees and through the gates only to find myself in a swarm of at least five hundred people. Turns out weekends are the worst time to chase your doppelgänger through the Wat Thai Buddhist Temple of North Hollywood.

There was a band playing Thai pop in the middle of the courtyard, a mob of teenagers organizing a pickup basketball game, and vendors selling light-up good luck cats and Buddhist-themed amulets. The air was thick with the heady aroma of ginger, garlic, and fish sauce.

I stopped a woman in a white apron and asked her what was going on.

“Food fair,” she replied, juggling a pile of Styrofoam plates. “Every weekend. Big deal on the Internet. Now nobody can find a place to park. You come to my stand and I give you free sample of
kanom krok.
Or maybe you prefer
som tum?”

I had no idea what
kanom krok
was, but
som tum
was green papaya salad, which I loved. They do a good job at Palms Thai on Hollywood Boulevard, plus Thai Elvis, aka Kavee Thongprecha, performs Wednesday through Sundays in his platforms and shiny suits. But I digress.

Where the hell was Cece?

My instincts said go left, so I went right, stopping short to allow a procession of monks to pass. They looked splendid
in their saffron-colored robes. Legend has it that Buddha was born in a grove of jackfruit trees, and the saffron represents the brilliant color of the pods inside. I learned that from the pamphlet the lead monk handed me.

“Welcome.” He bowed.

“Thank you.” I did the same.

“We appreciate the show of respect,” he said, “but you need not remove your shoes unless you are going inside.”

I clutched my gladiator sandals closer to my chest. “I am. Going inside.”

I bowed one last time, then pushed my way past the elderly man hawking satellite TV systems to a shrine no bigger than a bus shelter. At the entrance were some grubby sneakers, a pair of stone lions, and an urn filled with sticks of burning incense. I dropped my shoes to the ground and tiptoed inside. Two people sat cross-legged before a statue of a female deity festooned with ropes of plastic pearls and colorful beads.

No evil twin here.

I backed out, sidestepping a chunk of grilled pork somebody must have dropped.

“Whoops!” I grabbed onto the door jamb.

The worshipers turned around.

“Peace,” I said, bowing. “And love.”

I got my shoes and headed in the other direction, past the giggling girls clustered around the sarong stand and their savvy mothers checking out rice cookers priced at a reasonable $39.99 to the far end of the courtyard where the temple stood.

With its peaked red roof and ornate gold trim, the Wat Thai temple was the first Thai Buddhist temple built in the
United States. It was guarded by a pair of gargantuan stone demons who looked like they’d been sculpted of marzipan. I ran up the stairs, setting down my shoes in between some wingtips and some brand-new Adidas. There were no boots in sight, but that didn’t mean anything. The false Cece was hardly the pious type.

Inside was a huge gold Buddha surrounded by offerings of lit candles, fresh fruit, and silk flowers. People were praying, chatting with the monks, clipping dollar bills onto miniature paper trees. A nice man handed me a brochure about Buddhism’s links to Christianity and a schedule of this month’s events, written in Thai.

No evil twin here, either.

The clock was ticking.

I grabbed my shoes, ran down the stairs, and plunged back into the maelstrom, where I nearly tripped over a man who was on his hands and knees trying to get a low-angle shot of his wife’s mango with sticky rice.

“By any chance, has either of you seen a woman with cascading brown hair and a cream-colored jacket?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.

“No.” The wife handed her husband a plate of something square and gelatinous and studded with carbuncles. “Now take a picture of my sausage.”

The food court was on the lower level.

I took the stairs two at a time.

It was chaos down there, with smoke rising from huge cast-iron pots, babies crying, lines snaking in every direction, and people with Styrofoam platters of grilled marinated pork, beef skewers, chicken larb, and caramelized plantains jostling one
another for space at one of the picnic benches under the blue tent.

I blinked a couple of times. Looked right, left, in front of me, behind me.

Nothing.

Was she behind one of the stands, disguised as a Thai home cook?

Under a picnic bench, trying not to get kicked by people enjoying their curries?

Just as I was about to drop to my hands and knees, I saw her.

Standing no more than thirty feet away.

Looking nonchalant in the fried sweet potato line.

“Watch out!” I called as I dodged a family of four carrying bowls of duck noodle soup.

“Out of my way!” I said as I squeezed past a man in pressed chinos clutching last year’s Zagat guide.

“So sorry!” I cried as I bumped into a woman balancing two plates of tiny fried dumplings, all thirty-six of which went flying in the air.

Nearly there now, I pushed past ancient grandmothers and cranky schoolchildren and desperate foodies until I was finally close enough to reach out and grab her skinny shoulder.

She turned around, stared at me, then starting screaming in Thai.

“Sorry,” I said. “Wrong person.”

“You wait,” said an older man, clasping my wrist. “She says how dare you seek her autograph while she is on temple grounds?”

“I don’t want her autograph,” I said.

She started screaming in Thai again.

“She wants to know why you don’t like her series,” the older man said.

“What series?”

I felt something tug at the bottom of my coat.

“Air Hostess Wars,”
lisped a little girl in pigtails. “It’s very violent.”

Oh, God, there she was, heading up the stairs. The real fake Cece! There was no time to waste. “I love
Air Hostess Wars!
You look even more beautiful in person!”

The woman beamed. The older man released my wrist. I flew up the stairs. I was done with the victim stuff. I was going to think like a lion.

The lion senses her prey by vibration.

But it was hard to feel the vibrations with the Thai pop still playing.

The lion also uses her superior intellect.

Well.

The lion sometimes gets lucky.

I spied them outside a small office near the parking lot, splayed among the flip-flops and sneakers.

Her boots.

I think they were by Sergio Rossi.

My gladiator sandals hit the ground as I strode into the room.

Queen of the Jungle.

Never surrender.

Two young boys looked up from their instruments.

“Can I help you?” one of them asked. “We’re trying to practice.”

“The lady who just came in here,” I said. “Where is she?”

The other boy put a finger up to his lip, and pointed to a closed door in the back of the room.

Stealthily, I made my way.

What was I going to say to her? What could she possibly say to me?

I threw open the door.

There was a vacuum cleaner inside.

The boys were beside themselves. Doubled over. Unable to breathe.

“Thanks, guys,” I said as I left. “You’ve been great.”

I sat down on the stoop. Fine. She’d outsmarted me this time. But she wasn’t getting away with murder. That I would see to.

As for her fabulous cognac suede Sergio Rossi boots, they were a size 9 ½, and I’d be damned if they didn’t belong to me now.